


Care's Touch

by IntrovertedWife



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 05:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17420225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntrovertedWife/pseuds/IntrovertedWife
Summary: Fenris gets caught by Hawke cleaning up gangs that tried to attack the Champion. She invites him into her home and tries to wash the gore out of his hair. Fenris comes to realize his true worth in her eyes.





	Care's Touch

Hands clawed the ground; the final man’s valiant effort to retreat. Too little and far too late. Fenris placed a boot to the back of the gang member’s knee and pushed all his weight onto it. Before the bandit had a chance to scream, the elf’s greatsword bisected through the back of the throat. The body slumped dead to the ground along with the other ten who’d dared to trail her.

Blood gurgled down the gutters like a spring rain, the scarlet river a consistent of most Kirkwall nights. Fenris eyed up the last man left dying, curious if there was any coin on him worth excavating. It’d been a few days since he’d bought proper food from a stand — they always demanded he pay upfront in the Kirkwall markets. With his back turned from the light, he crouched down to search for what could become a potential meat pie or jug of wine.

“Fenris?”

The voice startled him to the quick, his steady hands erupting to toss a few coppers into the pools of blood. Spinning on his haunches, Fenris gazed up at the woman in red finery. Her hair was yet piled up in curls, a strange sight to the man who typically saw her in a helmet. Instead of the armor, she selected shimmering fabrics to caress her body. Even the hose, crimson as a sunset, looked finer than spider’s silk.

“What are you doing here, Hawke?” Fenris mumbled, rising to his feet. He should turn, walk back into the shadows from whence he emerged, but his feet were lead upon the cobbles. Limply, his battle-stained hands hung against his thighs.

“Well,” she drew a finger along her jaw in thought, her sharp eyes cutting through him, “I was about to head in for the night when I heard the tell-tale sound of steel swiping against leather.”

He’d been too slow this time. Every other night’s trip, Fenris would wait until Hawke passed far enough ahead before ending those who’d try to harm her. Whether for a bounty or bragging rights he didn’t know, but Fenris always dispatched them before she became aware. Almost always.

“Knowing that someone was about to get shanked,” Hawke continued, “I snatched up my daggers and ran to find you…in a sea of blood.”

As she gestured to the scarlet puddle at his feet, Fenris snorted, “Hardly a sea.”

“Would you prefer a lake?”

“A pond, perhaps?” he threw out, his voice haggard from the burst of exercise. A soft laugh broke from Hawke, whether from his words or actions didn’t matter. The sight of her laughing was enough to ensnare Fenris’ attentions.

“Here,” she reached a hand out, her perfumed, polished fingers wrapping around his. Before he could register that she was now stained in the blood herself, Hawke pulled him closer, “come inside for a drink.”

“I don’t know if…” he whispered, his voice falling down a hole even as he stumbled towards her door. His feet felt ten miles away encased in ice, the boots slapping against the ground without sensation. “It is very late,” Fenris said by way of excusing himself.

He’d allowed the gang draw too close to her door, the bodies practically piled up on her stoop. Foolish. She could have been hurt, caught by surprise as she returned from yet another noble party. “I’m certain you had a long night,” he mumbled, frozen upon her threshold as if it were unseemly for him to enter her estate.

Hawke wasn’t having any of his excuses. Leaning her hip against the doorjamb, she chuckled, “Not as long as yours, I’d imagine. Come on, one drink. Then you can go back to hurling bottles at the walls at home.”

With no recourse, Fenris gave into Hawke’s magnetic pull. It wasn’t until the door shut behind him that he remembered the last time he’d been here, and the reason why he stopped visiting her at home. His body froze, arms loose, hands open, legs limp to prove he was no danger. That he wouldn’t hurt her again.

Seemingly unaware of the fault, Hawke laid both her set of daggers and his greatsword upon a table. She said something about Bodhan and Sandal attempting to bake that day, when she turned on her heel. Those entrancing eyes burned into Fenris and she gasped, “Maker’s breath!”

“What?” He patted at a cheek, uncertain if there was a wound or not through the muck.

“Your hair, it’s soaked in blood,” Hawke answered, before stepping back, “And it’s dripping onto the floor.”

“Oh,” Fenris glanced down at a blood drop, the toe of his boot trying to blot it away. All he managed to do was smear it around. He should leave. Remain outside so he didn’t stain her foyer.

“Come on,” Hawke enveloped his hand in hers, tugging him deeper into her home instead of out.

Fenris followed her, even as his eyes continually darted down to watch the trail of gore seeping off his body. “What are you doing?”

“Washing that off of you. You’re liable to get…I don’t know, some kind of blood mage disease.”

She marched him not towards the stairs, not up the long walk to her bedroom that once seemed so short. No, instead, Hawke herded him towards the kitchens. They were often the site of Varric playing cards with Bodhan and Isabela. Sometimes the blood mage would sit on a stool watching while eating a tray of small cakes. Fenris used to join in, even savoring a laugh or drink with the group.

It felt ages since he’d last seen them.

A small fire burned in the stone hearth, only an iron pail above it for company. Hawke released her grip upon Fenris, apparently certain he wouldn’t flee. She yanked up an old wooden barrel from the corner and tossed it to the middle of the floor.

“Hawke, this is…you need not trouble yourself over me.”

“Don’t be silly, it’s not trouble.” She picked up a tea towel and wound it around the pail’s handle. Yanking the bucket off the fire, she dumped steaming water into the barrel. “Got to let it cool a bit, Bodhan likes his baths hotter than lava.”

The pair stood side by side, Fenris in blood-soaked armor, Hawke in perfumed finery, watching steam gush from the water’s edge. Neither spoke, though both drowned in words. The unspoken sentences and paragraphs that dogged their every meeting for nearly a year clogged up Fenris’ lungs. Late at night, or truthfully early morn, he’d toss in his bed thinking himself to have finally unearthed the courage to speak them. But one glance at Hawke and his spine melted. All he could do was trail behind and keep her safe.

It was all he was worth.

Hawke rolled up the sleeve of her blouse and dipped her elbow into the bucket. “Ah, there we go. It’s warm but not break into blisters hot.” Getting to work, she dipped the pail back into the bucket to excise most of the water. She was in such a hurry she forgot to roll up her other sleeve, drenching it in the process.

Fenris winced at that, but she paid it no heed. Instead, Hawke tipped her head to the barrel and said, “Well…”

“This is, I can do this at home,” Fenris continued to insist, watching the watery reflection of Hawke blow a breath in consternation.

“At your place, I bet the water’s got more blood in it than your hair. Sit already.” She was nearing exhaustion which meant there was a good chance Hawke would try to drag him down.

Knowing when he was licked, Fenris dropped to a knee. He inched closer to the bucket, his breath held for fear of the stench of rotten eggs, but none wafted from the water. It smelled as pure as a mountain spring.

“What are you doing?” Hawke didn’t seem pleased that he was facing the water, causing Fenris to look up at her. When he’d wash his hair, which was when the mood suited him, he’d usually dunk his whole head into the lukewarm water and shake it off.

“I’m...attempting to…”

“Turn around, you’ll drown otherwise.”

“Turn around?” Fenris repeated, confusion knotting up his brow as he watched Hawke hefting the mysterious pail up.

“You put the back of your head against the barrel,” she explained. For a brief second, her fingers wafted near his head to elucidate her point. At the thought of her forbidden touch, Fenris flinched, causing Hawke to snake her hand away. With barely a dip in her voice, she continued, “Then I pour clean water over your head so the gross part runs into the bucket.”

Fenris blinked slowly, digesting the thought. He swiveled back to stare into the barrel before gazing up at her. “I hadn’t considered,” was his answer as he leaned back. The lip of the wooden barrel bit into a tender divot at the middle of his skull but he shook off the pain.

“How else does someone wash your hair for you?” Hawke sighed.

No one did. Not a slave’s hair. Not a man on the run. Fenris hadn’t even imagined the notion, the idea of someone else tending to his needs as foreign a thought as a man walking on the sun.

“Okay, here it comes,” Hawke announced. “Ah, might want to scoot closer to the tub,” she ordered. Fenris did as told, sliding back until his neck rested on the lip, his head floating above the bucket. Without another warning, Hawke tipped the pail over. Warm water struck his forehead, Fenris’ eyes closing on instinct. They remained sealed through the gentle shower parting, then drenching, his hair.

He was about to open them, sit up and shake the water off, when fingers as gentle as a breeze curled up his scalp and began to comb his locks back. Hawke would dump another small cup of water after making a pass, then shift to a new section to begin again. Every tender tug of her fingers trying to unknot his mane soothed Fenris’ nerves. His body relaxed so, the stone floor of the kitchen felt softer than a feather bed.

“There we go. Now time for the soap,” Hawke narrated, the sound of the pail striking the floor causing Fenris’ eyes to open. He stared upward at her soggy sleeves tugging away from the ex-slave’s bloody hair as she fished for something in a cupboard. This was foolish. Pointless, really. He didn’t need this level of attention from someone like the Champion of Kirkwall.

He didn’t deserve it either.

“This one’s…hm,” Hawke placed a bar to her nose and sniffed, “lavender I think. Well, it’s all we have.” Dipping both her arms into the water without a care, Hawke lathered her hands with the soap bar. Bubbles rose up her forearms right next to his face, a few breaking away to tickle Fenris’ nose. He felt an urge to laugh but swallowed it down as Hawke began to vigorously rub the soap over his hair.

Where before was a kiss of rain, this was a massaging hailstorm. Each of her fingers rubbed against his scalp, reviving the slumbering nerves as she tried to wash away the gore. “Maker’s breath, there’s so much blood in there your hair’s turned pink,” Hawke gasped.

“Really?” Fenris grumbled, lifting his head up as if there was a mirror around to look.

Her palm soothed over his forehead, leaving a smear of soap behind, as if she feared he might still run. “It’s not a bad look for you. Softens your image.”

Fenris snarled, causing Hawke to laugh so exuberantly his attempts at brooding imploded. Maker save him, but he was enjoying this. Hawke, despite her tendency to leave a cemetery’s worth of bodies in her wake, was so tender while tending to him. As if someone like him should have his hair washed by another, his feet cleansed, his clothes tended to. It was a preposterous thought.

“Okay,” Hawke announced, dropping the soap bar to the ground. She looked about to turn away, when she suddenly swept both her hands over the top of his scalp, bisected the fingers and tugged his hair straight up. Fenris vaguely felt the rise of his soapy locks refusing to fall, a sneer at the move rising in his lips, when he caught Hawke’s endearing smile.

Her sparkling eyes drifted from the two foot stand of hair she gave him to his eyes. Wincing, she said, “Sorry, but I couldn’t help myself.”

Fenris grumbled, uncertain what answer he could give.

“Now to just wash it all off,” Hawke continued to narrate. A strange thing. Even in the midst of battle she kept her orders terse and clean. Filling the space of silence seemed more a Merrill trait.

Oh.

Of course.

It was because of him. Because of what he did.

Fenris’ body tensed into a coil, the once tender ground hard as steel below him. With his spine a board, he tipped his head back towards the bucket as if to get this over with quickly. Perhaps Hawke sensed his sudden reluctance, maybe she too realized the mistake of this kindness. Either way, the first dump of hot water wiped away her styling.

His eyes remained open, Fenris battle tense as he stared upward into Hawke’s face. She nibbled on her lip in thought, her nose scrunched up as she continued to guide more of the cleansing water through his hair. It should unnerve him, to stare up into the iron gaze of the Champion of Kirkwall in a domestic setting. No armor, only silks and shifts. No war paint, only perfumes and rouge. No snarling lips, only a tender concern as she patiently scrubbed through his bloody mess.

It should unnerve him to find peace in this gentle Hawke, but it didn’t.

And that fact unnerved him to the core.

“Oh,” the bucket slipped in her fingers, some water dribbling down his forehead. As fast as she could hurl a dagger, Hawke slipped a hand above his eyes. “Don’t want to get soap in them,” she said with a laugh.

A kind hand, without thought, protecting him from something as trivial as a dab of soap in his eye. A generous heart brushing through his mop to make certain it was spotless. The seal in his mind, put there by Danarius lighting his body with lyrium, cracked. Images seeped through, not memories exactly. There were no faces he could discern, no voices, but a feeling.

A hand against his head, safety in his mind, and warmth in his heart.

“Well,” the warm waterfall ceased, Hawke sliding away off her knees, “that should…” As her palm raised away from shielding his eyes, she stared at the water streaking his cheeks. It didn’t slip past her guard against his forehead, but fell from his eyes. And he didn’t know how to stop it.

“I need to get you a towel still,” Hawke dropped the pail, already dashing off to wherever they kept their linens. “Just, drip dry over the bucket until I get back,” were her parting orders.

Fenris spun onto his hands, both palms clutching tight to the cold stones. He dug his forehead into the barrel’s lip, listening to the drip-drop of the water sluicing off his hair. _Why did he come here? Why did he keep himself forever in her thrall? Why was she so needlessly kind to him?_

Warmth draped around his shoulders, Fenris sitting up in surprise to find a towel cupping the back of his head. As his eyes landed upon Hawke, she stepped away and shrugged. “Found one.”

The deathly silence returned, only their heartbeats bounding about the kitchen. Fenris scrubbed at his hair, trying to wick away as much moisture as possible before he returned to the cold night.

“After our baths, my mother would always braid our hair. Mine and Bethany’s. To give us a curl in the morning. I…” Hawke’s story crumbled, a hand wrapped around her elbow as she bit through the trauma of loss not even a year old.

He wished he knew what to say. The others had mothers. Whether as gentle and kind as Liandra, or harsh and strict at least it gave them something to share with Hawke. All he had was a void that would never fill.

“Though, I don’t think you have enough hair to braid,” Hawke threw out, clinging back to a laugh as he gave her nothing.

“No, I suppose not,” Fenris muttered. Tugging the towel off his hair, he shifted his head, savoring in the light bounce of the strands where it’d been dragged down by oil, sweat, and blood. Hawke had a way of lifting him no matter how hard he fought her help.

Passing the towel to her, Fenris said, “Thank you.” He may be a misanthropic ex-slave who squatted in a derelict mansion but he wasn’t without manners. At least he had that to keep him warm at night.

With his words drained, Fenris turned away from Hawke. There was still the long walk back to his cold bed to make. He made it towards the doorway, when Hawke sputtered, “I know you’ve been following me.”

Fenris froze, his wet hand digging into the doorframe. Ragged breaths tried to scrape down his throat as he closed his eyes. Slowly, he risked a glance back. Hawke was unreadable as she worried the towel in her fingers.

“Dispatching all those gangs who like to trail the Champion at night,” she tipped her head towards the front door and the pile of corpses Fenris left behind.

“You’d think they’d know better than to challenge you,” he grumbled in his chest.

“Kirkwall isn’t known for breeding smart criminals,” Hawke quipped back. For a brief second, he thought that was the end of it. She said her peace, and he’d keep his distance. “I don’t need a bodyguard, Fenris.”

There it was. He’d kept to the shadows, waited until she’d long since passed, made certain to never linger because…because he feared her refusing. Turning away the only gift he could ever give. The only job in life he was worthwhile at.

“You don’t,” he agreed, well aware of the Champion’s skill. It was why she was given her title after all.

“I don’t want one either,” Hawke continued, her breath stumbling as if she ran into the room. That was a fair assessment as well. She’d have very little use for a personal bodyguard, and where there was no use there was no point. Accepting his lot in life, Fenris turned towards the door.

“What I want is a friend,” she spoke quick, freezing him in place. “Not someone who…who skulks in the dark. Who takes care of my problems without even telling me. Who walks ten steps behind.”

Andraste’s Mercy, he did that. He did all of that and without thought. It was what Danarius demanded of him. What was expected of him. What he thought was wanted of someone as useless as him.

“What…” Fenris gulped, his throat raw as he faced a ghost he thought he slew long ago. The past was impossible to kill. “What do you want?”

Hawke slid her foot over the wet floor, forming a half circle before her body in thought. It was oddly girlish to come from a grown woman, but she shrugged and her smile bloomed. “For you to walk by my side. To not think of yourself as a bodyguard. To go with me, shoulder to shoulder, around Kirkwall.”

To be an equal.

No, that was…preposterous.

He was…he wasn’t…or was he?

“That,” Fenris stared into her hopeful eyes, “sounds acceptable.”

“So no more waiting to trail me after noble parties?” Hawke asked, her tone playful. Still chastised, Fenris’ gaze drifted down and he shook his head. “You could attend them with me instead.”

His head whipped up, a finger raising along with his snarl, when Hawke laughed. “Or not,” she giggled, bringing a chortle to him as well. “But there’s always a night of Wicked Grace at the Hanged Man after. And I could use a second against Varric and my own dog.”

From under the towel came Hawke’s hand. The same one she proffered to him when he hired random strangers to defeat slavers in Kirkwall. The same one that pulled him off of Hadria’s corpse and into her arms. The same one that protected his eyes from soap.

Fenris curled his fingers around hers as gently as a fall of rain. “I’d like nothing more,” he declared.


End file.
